


cracks n' crackles

by breathingvacancy



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: F/F, Light BDSM, Mild S&M, Mild Sexual Content, POV Second Person, Tokyo Ghoul Femslash Week, Vanilla
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 23:43:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6134106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathingvacancy/pseuds/breathingvacancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feeling itself is an alien concept to you now. When all the agony dried up, apathy nested in your heart.</p>
<p>The desire to get it back is there though, somehow. You know you should feel. If you bleed, there is simply meant to be pain. Feeling is what it means to be alive. And you, well, for all intents and purposes, you’re still breathing.</p>
<p>So you try to get the feeling back. If anyone can make you feel, it will be Mayu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cracks n' crackles

**Author's Note:**

> Themes of strong, sisterly, platonic Kurona&Nashiro not to be read as anything other than a deep familial bond. And me making assumptions. Firstly, :re chapter 9 leads me to believe Nuts was a professional dominatrix. I’m also under the impression Nashiro died from her wounds. Possibly not, since Eto has had “fatal” damage to her kakuhou at least twice. But Eto is obviously another case entirely.

At some point it dully occurs to you that you don’t feel anymore. You haven’t felt anything since your sister pushed her final feeble, scratchy breath past her teeth as all the blood she could lose soaked you to the skin. With her sole kakugan gone and her seemingly human gaze clouding over, her body fell slack in your arms. You haven’t felt anything since the sensation of her expiring against your chest.

You suppose it makes sense. Nashiro was your twin, your other half. The white to your black. You were born together. You were supposed to stay together as two halves to one whole. Her last moments haunt you on an instant reply at any given time, especially if you’re thinking about feeling. Naturally you think about Rei too. Revenge pops up attached, a celluloid consideration that neither logic nor heart bother to back up.

He’d slaughter you. You weren’t strong enough with Nashiro, you’ll never ever be strong enough without her. Even if you could somehow, there’s no drive. No passion. No point. Nashiro would still be dead and you’d still be this empty, crooked shadow wandering around like you might have a purpose somewhere. When she died, she took so much of you with her. All your feeling included.

The guilt you had to suppress to choke down human meat has dissolved completely from any hidden depth of your body you hadn’t wanted to admit was there. The anger you felt for this warped cage of a world a false father once fostered in you has drained away. The fleeting joys you got in at that point, mostly prompted by Nashiro to begin with, all fall far out of reach.

Feeling itself is an alien concept to you now. When all the agony dried up, apathy nested in your heart.

The desire to get it back is there though, somehow. You know you should feel. If you bleed, there is simply meant to be pain. Feeling is what it means to be alive. And you, well, for all intents and purposes, you’re still breathing.

So you try to get the feeling back. 

Your preferences are a bit unorthodox. You’ve never been very comfortable with them. This world that you can’t hate much anymore is a world that hates the abnormal.

Nashiro always knew. She knew why you cried a little longer for Shizuku than anyone else, knew why you lingered at her gravestone. She knew when you flipped through a fashion magazine it wasn’t the clothes your eyes were drawn to.

It hadn’t bothered her the way it had bothered you. You always wanted to thank her for that but it wasn’t like you could talk about it.

At any rate, nothing is stopping you now. You don’t care what anyone thinks anymore so you might as well indulge. Maybe it could fix you. Sew up this lasting void.

* * *

Her name is Mayu. You’ve heard about her from some other ghouls. The CCG calls her Nutcracker. If anyone can make you feel, it will be Mayu. She brings out carnal feeling for a living, pumps pain and pleasure into everyone that dials her naughty number and feasts on the testicles of human patrons, hence her alias.

You’re not particularly sure why. You’ve eaten testicles before and you hardly consider them a delicacy. If anything you find them as bland and unappealing as you find males in general. At any rate, comparing dietary preferences is not why you call her.

Her voice is the guilty allure of cigarette smoke, danger for your health and addiction promised in the way it floats over you and warms your throat. For the first time since you began your solitary life, you are not indifferent. You are confident this is a good idea.

You can hear the faint, moist draw of her tongue over her lip before she says,

“I always give women discounts.”

And you’re already sold.

She knows you’ve never done this before. She says she’ll go easy on you and you tell her no, no, easy can’t fix you.  
There is a pause. She laughs and it’s like the flight of a raven rolls from her tongue. She gives you the number of a hotel room and tells you not to be late.  
You aren’t late. You’re almost early.

The door opens. Mayu grabs you by the chin and yanks you inside.  
“Kurona,” she confirms as she sizes you up.

You do the same. She’s almost vampiric in her dark enchantment. Her sizable assets are outlined in studded leather and a lacy, veil-thin mask wraps around her eyes. Her boots are thigh-high, the tall heels as sharp and narrow as a knitting needle. Her eyes are keen, catlike. Ravenous.

She permeates sweat against velvet, blood-splashed latex. She extends a finger and tips your chin up with a perfectly manicured knife of a fingernail, inspecting you further.

You hold your breath and peer back into her face.

Her black lips shape into a circle of surprise and then spread into a grin that reveals equally black teeth.

“So you’re one of those rare half-ghouls.”

You’re taken aback. Sure enough, you skim your fingertips under your eye to find a webbing of protruding veins. You’re not sure when your kakugan activated.

“Yeah,” you answer at last. “…does this mean I get another discount?”

Her response is to kiss you. Her lips cover yours and push wetly, a gentle pressure as she tilts her head. The sensation reaches you in that you register it’s there, but it doesn’t produce the feeling you think you need. The seed of doubt almost takes root and then her teeth tear into your bottom lip.

There’s not enough pain to care, but there is a wake up call in the sound.

The sound.

The tender, delicate flesh of your lip _ripping_ under Mayu’s teeth. It cuts into the air like the fabric-y noise of hundred sundering seams and echoes through your ears.

You gasp against her mouth, blood washed over your tongue. Mayu wrestles her tongue between your teeth, its tip poking the insides of your cheeks. Her fingers slowly curl around your throat as she sucks the breath out of you.

She draws away, reiterates in your ear what you talked about on the phone as her grip tightens. The sound of her voice sends molten shivers down your back. You agree again, a ghost of something eager. Her fingers fall away and that deadly boot strikes your gut in the blink of an eye.

You fly back and smack the hardwood floor bum first, palms second. You’re sprawled out like an unorthodox crab. Mayu struts toward you, the clack of those heels authoritarian. She tips your chin up with her toe and commands you lick.

Her voice is a force and you’re a servant to its sound. You lick like a dog until the black shines new. She appraises your work with a stern eye. Her approval comes in the pat of her hand. Then her fingers are claws in your hair, curved and grasping. She yanks hard, hauling you up to your feet.

She orders you to undress, the tone and the power in the words like a punch to your face. You take the hem of your shirt and pull it up over your head. You unzip your plain a-line skirt and wiggle it down your hips. You aren’t flashy nor provocative in your display, you are simply doing as she says. Her eyes travel along your physique, her tongue poking out to swipe over her lips. You unclip your bra and the panties follow, pooling around your feet.

“Good,” Mayu declares with a smirk.

The praise puffs against you like a gust of warm wind and she leads you to the handcuffs suspended from the ceiling. You hold out your wrists as she brings them down. They’re black. Leathery like bat wings. She secures them and cinches the straps tight, reaching up to rehang them from the chain.

Metal clinks softly, something sparking in your belly. Mayu fans her fingers over your chest and glides them over your skin. She jiggles your breasts, the very tips of her nails poking the soft flesh. She dances her fingers along the outsides of your thighs and then up your back. It’s a cursory touch on her part. This is not why she accepted your call. A nip to you jaw concludes her curiosity and then she blinds you with velvet ribbon, deftly securing the knot at the back of your head.

“Prepare yourself, Kurona,” she says in a sultry rustle of thorns over bone, the explicit crack of a whip slicing through the air.

The first crack is a warning. The second crack is concurrent with the slap of contact against your bare ass. Your skin splits and seals itself just as her next strike hits right under.

You strain agains your restraints instinctively, the chains jangling as gasps jump up from your throat. It isn’t the pain of being whipped, no, no, it’s the sound.  
The loud, ardent sound of her punishment stirs the fire in you that’s been doused for far too long. The sound drags the despondency out of you and crackles in your chest like an uproar of applause.

She rolls her wrist and dishes out her worst, the echo of each snap of the whip ratcheting up your pulse.

You lose track of how many times she strikes you, your fingers twitching as you finally begin to experience the sting. The sweet, sweet sting. You’re drooling and heaving, your arms sore from being up for so long. She truly puts her power behind the whip.

Your skin breaks under each bite. Breaks then heals, breaks then heals. It’s a process that wakes you up like a lightning storm, your trembling toes curling inward. Mayu doesn’t give you time to recover or absorb the blows, she just keeps it up at a rapid-fire pace.

You hear her breath, the hitches in her inhales and the steady rush of her exhales. Her breathing is expressive, but controlled. She’s enjoying herself but she is also a professional. She barrages your bottom with hit after hit, your body jerking with each one like it’s an electric shock.

Mayu spits ashtray insults at you, the curses thrumming through your bloodstream. You’re moaning, _moaning_ , moaning too loud, she says. She chastises you for that with a particularly savage lash of the whip that scorches every nerve.

Spittle flies from your lips. A sudden rush of fluid spurts from your sex and you fall limp, your heart fluttering like a wasp’s wings. Another chorus of Mayu’s raven laugh washes over you. You hear the whip fall to the floor. She steps forward and then slides her hands under your thighs.

She grips firmly and lifts your legs up, sliding your knees over her shoulders. You quiver as she buries her face between your thighs, her lips popping as she begins lapping in long, agonizing strokes. You shudder and cross your ankles behind her back, the fierce fervor that just thundered through you leaving this blissful peace in its wake.

Her tongue soothes you, a relief resonating in the tingles.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

“Anytime,” hums Mayu, her voice vibrating along your slick skin.


End file.
